A Poet Came Along, Mouth Half-Opened
by kusegoto
Summary: (Мор. Утопия / Pathologic) Artemy finds Grief in his home. A hospital is no place for a vagrant. Artemy Burakh/Bad Grief from Pathologic 2. NSFW warning for sexual content. Bad Grief is trans.


**A/N:**unofficially a sequel to a doddering tenderness. but this is mostly another excuse to get artemy up inside grief (with a bit more feelings)

i promise i don't only write about the dinural ending. it's just the easiest to pluck people from.

once again, as the previous fic, there is a brief discussion of trans pregnancy. and again, it's just grief being weird and annoying (for the love of god, artemy, invest in contraceptives) keep that in mind as you read if that makes you uncomfortable!

title is from a cloud in trousers by vladimir mayakovsky.

* * *

He hasn't had the time, nor heart, to move the mattresses from the hospital room. When the kids sleep, they pick their favourite bed and tuck themselves in. Artemy leans in the doorway by his shoulder.

Below the window, Grief keeps his back to the rest of the room. There's a sheet lain over the mattress, but Artemy doesn't blame him for laying on top of it — who knows how dirty it's become, from the murky air and the literal sickbeds rolling through the air of his old home. He's guilty of only cleaning what they've been using ever since moving back in.

Artemy walks across the room. He knows Grief isn't sleeping. Doesn't have to see his stare to figure that. At least he didn't pick one of the kids' beds to crash on. Perhaps he intentionally chose the filthiest one.

"I've returned to my own bedroom," Artemy tells him. "Would you rather sleep on my bed while I do something about that one?"

"Not sleeping," Grief reminds him. "Thinking, yeah. Place between waking and sleeping, before the dreams catch you."

"Mine has a pillow."

"Any different than you left it?"

"My father boarded it up at some point. Other than the nails in the door, no. Untouched."

Grief rolls on to his back. He hasn't taken any time to remove his clothing, neither his coat, gloves, boots. His eyes wander across the ceiling, like he's looking for the lines of glass meeting glass, or the seam of a pocket. He has the pallor of a man who has not seen the sun.

Other than his paling despair, Grief looks little different in the wake of the Second Pest. The sun is starting to crawl over his body. Outside, a cat meows.

"When did you get in here?" Artemy asks, sitting himself down. Grief doesn't move any further.

"Slipped through the cracks not too long ago." Grief says, with a low sigh to each word. "Haven't touched anything. Just wanted to lay down."

"If it's sleep you need, I can leave you."

"You're much too kind on bandits."

"So long that I don't discover you've actually taken anything, I don't mind."

Grief flicks his eyes over to him. "Might enjoy dozing in something more familiar than the old man's hospital."

* * *

Artemy leaves him alone for two hours, and partakes in the domestically monotonous task of cleaning.

Earlier, before he found Grief, it was dishes, and even earlier than that, it was wooden crates. That which remained from the ransacking and ravaging of the Pest, of course; there was the threat of losing his father's belongings during the week of plague, and now, it seemed his burden was now organization.

It's remarkably different than what he had to become. Perhaps in a week's time, he'll find himself planting vegetables in a new garden. Become a farmhand instead of a surgeon's hand. Lara's been talking about community gardens, anyway. Keeping the town together.

When he cleans his hands of dust, grime and dirt, he ascends the stairs once more, and opens his old bedroom door.

He's quiet about it, but Grief is sitting up, awake. He's removed his coat, one of the layers underneath, and his boots. Artemy hadn't expected him to wear socks, for some unknown reason, but he does, dirty white things. He isn't sure what might be in Grief's head, but when his friend sees him, he changes his posture to look like he's considering leaving.

"Kind of you," he says, voice like cracked glass trying to speak clearly, cleanly. "To let me sleep. Think I might be going, though."

"Do you have anywhere to go?" Artemy asks. He leans on the door, once again. "Have you seen your warehouse?"

It's meant to be a question, but it parses like a sigh of disbelief. Grief looks away, back at the old dresser filled with clothes that don't fit Artemy anymore.

"Lived in worse," Grief admits. "Squalor and tedium aren't unfamiliar."

Artemy sits down on his bed. Grief doesn't move. "How were things after I left?"

Grief makes a face, like being in thought. "We haven't had any talk like that yet, have we? Moved out, roamed the roads. Struck a deal with Fat Vlad to keep the warehouses in check to his liking. Guess you put a stop to that, didn't you, Cub?"

Artemy turns his head away. Grief fills the space by watching him. "I wasn't aware you were told."

"I wasn't — word just travels fast when there ain't many people left."

"The Junior yet remains. You can negotiate continued work with him, with the reformation of the Enterprise—"

"Never said I was looking for that back," Grief interrupts. He leans himself back on his hands. "Just telling you where we're at. You already know I'm a changed man."

"You'll have nowhere else to be," Artemy says.

"Helps to be a humble lot." Grief means to his right, resting himself against Artemy. Feels more like a necessity — as if exhaustion is catching back up to Grief, and his nap wasn't long enough. "Helps to break what you have to accept."

"You've let your mind wander..." Artemy shakes his head, and reaches an arm around Grief, holding him against his shoulder with more intent. "Do you really believe there's nothing past us? Nothing to say about how we grew up?"

"What's the point of belief? Thinking reaches far enough."

Artemy closes his eyes. "I won't have this conversation with you again."

When he opens them, Grief is looking at him. He doesn't know how to parse his expression — mostly, he thinks he feels guilt.

They sit on Artemy's bed, together. Neither move for some time.

"I'm glad you survived," Artemy says, quietly.

"Barely, so said Barley." Grief keeps looking at him, and speaks in the same hush-hush. "Took care of him, you did. Thought that would be the last hurrah between you and I, once those soldiers took the Inquisitor away."

"Did they threaten you?"

"Didn't find me. Stole up the steps." Grief blinks, slowly. "Came back down from the bell that makes time once it was just me."

Artemy brings a hand against Grief. Tentatively, he presses his fingers flat into his side, and feels his heart clench when Grief uses that to lean forward, closer.

Of all the people who made it, he hadn't expected Grigory to be the one to...

"Won't lie to you, Cub." Grief doesn't look up at him. "Thought about us for a long time after you left."

"After just one time?"

"Not much else to think about between being a honest man and a shopkeep."

Artemy finds himself missing the bite, the lazy grin, the cruelty woven in poetry. The hand he holds against Grief's hip roams up to take his cheek, tilting his head. If Grief was at all not expecting the gesture, he hides his surprise very well.

"I didn't realize I had that affect on you," Artemy admits.

"Only flared up like a missing leg once you came back," Grief replies, trailing the back of his own hand against Artemy's jaw. "Never thought I'd have an affection affliction, never thought there would be a place..."

He stops admiring Artemy's jaw and looks him in the eye. Artemy can feel his throat dry, looking at the dull shades inside Grief's eyes.

"Thinking of a second round?" Grief asks. The smile is there, if humbled and muted.

Artemy exhales through his nose. "Maybe."

"Only hope you thought as long about me as I did you."

Grief seals it first, pushing his mouth to Artemy's and holding his arms around his shoulders. Grief only closes his eyes into the kiss once Artemy holds him as well, pulling his legs up across Artemy's lap. Grief takes the first push, hand in Artemy's hair and the short scruff along his jaw, leaning in to him to take his dear friend down, laying Artemy on his back.

With his lap bare and open, Grief takes the opportunity to drag his leg over Artemy, straddling his hips and leaning forward on his knees. Kissing Grief feels like he's stealing away towards a past memory, hiding in his thoughts and drifting through his patient touch. Remarkably, Grief doesn't rush him the way he did years ago. The rush of doing something you're not supposed to is absent, and replaced with a pressing desire; something with more purpose.

Grief sits back on to Artemy's hips. With a stare, he keeps his eyes on his breathless partner to undress himself. He pulls his shirt over his head, bringing with it the loose, dull-coloured undershirt that he keeps underneath. Artemy reaches his hand up, outward, but before he can touch Grief's chest, his hand is helped from his work gloves.

It is then that Artemy remembers he is entirely overdressed.

"Let me take my clothes off," Artemy says, with only a small flush over his words. Grief smirks, and it's far, far more familiar.

"I would've had some fun tearing those things off," Grief muses, moving so Artemy can sit up further, pulling his clothing off. "You didn't let me do that last time."

"Last time was unexpected," Artemy mutters, shirt over his head. "Neither of us could have wandered home in tatters."

"We're in your home now, aren't we?"

Artemy pauses at his belt. He looks to Grief — who is bare, pulling himself free of the heavy trousers, that now crumple by his ankles. He was not as fortunate to see his whole bare body last time. His eyes settle on Grief's breasts, but he quickly looks away. Over his shoulder, Grief chuckles lowly.

"I don't have anything for this," he admits.

"If you keep up that habit, I'll accuse you of planning to keep me."

_"Grigory."_

Grief pulls himself up on his elbows, straightening himself out. Artemy keeps his head turned as he pulls himself free. His room feels warm, but it might be Grief staring at him. When he is bare, he looks at Grief's own form once more — Grief beckons him forward, and Artemy follows, feeling the pull.

"There, there," Grief says as Artemy yields. His eyes follow down Artemy's body, watching the hang of his cock. "Wonder if you've had any experience since then."

Artemy furrows his brow as he feels a red flush run over him again. "You know the answer to that."

"Get on top of me."

Artemy obliges, crawling over Grief's thighs and running his hands on his hips. Grief reaches to Artemy, pulling him down to close the distance between them. Without hesitation, he kisses Artemy again, hands firmly sliding over his shoulders. To steady himself, Artemy presses both arms at the side of Grief's head.

His cock drags against Grief's stomach. Artemy hums a groan into Grief, who seems to keep a grin. He ruts against the warm skin below him, feeling the slit between his closed legs catch and drag his cock. Artemy pulls his mouth to Grief's neck, and gasps through another rush across his body.

"Wonder if this is gonna become a habit of yours," Grief says, with his own out-of-breath whisper. "Rolling around on top of me before you disappear."

"I can't," Artemy admits, moving his hand from the side of Grief's head to his hair, placing his hand into the red. "Not anymore."

Grief turns his head into his touch, exposing his neck for Artemy to rest his mouth on. "That your way of saying you _will_ be keeping me?"

Artemy pushes his thigh between Grief's legs, dragging himself against his hips some more. It's Grief's turn to gasp. "It can't just be you."

"I know. Which is why I'm asking."

Artemy lowers himself, low enough to feel his chin begin to graze against the flat of Grief's breasts. The hand in his hair drags down with him, between the line of his sternum, then past his navel. Artemy looks up at Grief, who returns the glance.

"God. Touch them, why don't you," he remarks, with a quieter huff. "That's _why_ I took my shirt off this time."

"Sorry," Artemy said, sounding only a little embarrassed. "I wasn't sure you—"

"Don't bother."

Artemy turns his head, feeling the warmth of Grief's body as he nuzzles the flank of his cheek against his breast. He opens his mouth to press a wide kiss, relaxing with Grief as the uncertainties of his actions wash away. The hand roaming down his body parts Grief's legs some more, and Artemy drags his index down his slit.

Grief angles his leg farther, running his hand up into Artemy's hair and scratching his scalp. Artemy groans into the warm skin he keeps his mouth over.

"There, Cub, _fuck,_ use both of them," Grief gasps, as Artemy eases his other finger into the folds of his core. Artemy presses inside and angles his wrist up, making Grief jolt against him. The hand he had resting over his stomach reaches to Artemy's jaw, yanking him up off his breast where his teeth and tongue left a flushed red ring. He makes Artemy look at him. "No one else? Not a soul?"

"No one," Artemy confesses. He doesn't know what he's promising. He doesn't think Grief knows, either. With a roll of his wrist, Artemy curls his fingers and pushes them in, out, then farther in Grief, who silences himself by kissing Artemy with grit teeth. Grief tugs on Artemy's hair again, and it goes right down his body and into his groin.

Grief grins into this kiss. Maybe it's because he gets to feel the scruff of Artemy this time, running his fingers over the hair he's been unable to shave. Each press of Artemy's fingers and roll of thumb and knuckles makes Grief breathe a little harder, pacing himself with short and quiet _mm, mm_s in the back of his throat.

Artemy presses his palm against the crux, rubbing into Grief's clit. The body below him jerks and rolls into the touch, and that's enough for Artemy to pull his hand free and find his place between his legs. He strokes his cock with the hand that was inside Grief, who now keeps one arm hooked around Artemy's neck, the other holding himself up by the elbow.

"Look at me," Grief says, and Artemy does, keeps his eyes open and looks into Grief's when he presses the head of his cock to his entrance, pushing inside with the same pace he took with his hands. Grief doesn't tense, but he does dig his nails into the taunt skin of Artemy's back from where his hand rests. The way his eyes roll back when Artemy gives him more of himself is enough to make his insides burn.

"God, _God_, I yield," Grief says, breathless and pulled open.

"Don't ask me to stop now," Artemy grunts, just as strained.

"Haven't had you in so long, let me feel you."

"Grigory. Let me. I'll ravish you yet if you want me."

Grief moves his hips in a way that pushes Artemy far inside, hip to hip, his cock buried inside him and giving nothing but his hilt. Grief makes something like a gasp, sharp and sudden, that Artemy can scarcely believe he could offer himself that way. When Artemy leans forward, he feels the way Grief moves, too, and the clench is enough to break Artemy's patience.

He places both hands at Grief's side and pushes in, a firm snap of his hips that causes Grief to jolt once again. He hits him again, pressing far and down into him, relishing in the strained sounds coming from beneath him. Grief holds Artemy's arms, clutches his shoulders and locks his legs around him, the pace of _Artemy, Artemy_ as means to encourage him along.

Artemy lowers his head into Grief's shoulder. Grief holds him, grips him, scratches his skin and says his name a little more desperate when Artemy reacts with a hard snap again. Behind him, Artemy can feel Grief's thighs tighten against his back, drawing him close to feel the full weight of his body.

When he lifts his head, watches Grief, watches Grigory, he sees him completely lost, welcoming Artemy, taking Artemy, wanting Artemy. He leans his head down and presses a kiss to the flank of Grigory's jaw, then his cheek, then his mouth. He holds them there, rocking his hips inside as he breathes in Grigory's sounds, offering his own as short breaths and half-made words.

Grigory pulls his head away to gasp something ragged, his lungs eager for air. He, suddenly, drags his nails inward to Artemy's back, pulling himself up against him completely. Artemy realizes he's hit his limit, climaxing around his cock and clenching around him. Grigory bites down on his teeth, strangles a sound between a cry and a hard groan. Artemy presses down into him, and when he feels Grigory's body slacken once more, he resumes the hard, desperate, selfish pace he needs to chase his own finish.

"In me," Grigory demands, breathless.

"I couldn't," Artemy gasps, a hand supporting himself on Grigory's hip. He can feel his hands sliding off Artemy's shoulders, but he tries to hold on.

"Do it, or I'll throw you on your back and ride it out of you," he grunts in response, clenching each aftershock down on to Artemy, which torments his release further. "I want it, Burakh, just _give_ it to me—"

Grigory scratches down the same red tracks he left on Artemy at the same time he feels himself uncoil, grabbing Grigory's hips with both of his hands, arms tucked under his waist, and pulls him in to the hilt once more. Grigory yelps with a startled sound, his body lifted upwards to be split against Artemy. He lurches forward, arms still wrapped securely around Grigory as he presses his whole weight down, emptying himself inside.

The beats of his pulse pace how he releases Grigory, dragging his arms against the bed back up to frame his head. Artemy breathes deep and sharp, shuddering at the last of his climax rolls out of him in a final wave. He looks up from his folded posture to look at Grigory, who shares the same exhaustion. He pulls himself free.

"Knew you had it in you," Grigory says, far more mischief than mournful. "Just a matter of keeping it under there."

"I had no intention of—" Artemy stops himself. He shakes his head against Grigory's chest, like there isn't any point.

Grigory pats the top of his head. "There, there. You'll have a third little one to take care of."

"It wasn't funny six years ago. It isn't funny now."

"Really? I find it hilarious." Even with Artemy laying on him, Grigory has the strength to pull his body free from his weight. Perhaps it's the sweat. And he _just_ washed himself. "As a gesture of fair faith, I'll see to it the sheets are washed."

"I've yet to see if you know how to do your own laundry," Artemy admits. He sits himself up, and turns to lay on his side. He looks down the length of Grigory's body, trailing his eyes away. "... If you would prefer, you can stay in this room."

"How well and good — Artemy knows bedside etiquette." Grigory leaves his legs parted. Artemy tries not to think about it. "Fine. I will. Does this mean anything?"

"Sharing a room?"

"Sleeping together for the second time." Grigory rolls his head on his shoulder. "And sharing a room."

Artemy brings his free hand, the one not supporting him, to scratch his jaw. He thinks about how Grigory ran his hands against it before kissing him. "... I suppose we'll see. I'll have time to catch on to your habits."

"I'll be certain to come up with different ones," Grigory says, and looks away with a grin.


End file.
